Avast, ye scurvy dogs and armchair admirals! Gather 'round the galley fire as Captain Iron Ink spills the salt on the most bitter skirmish to hit the AFCON archipelago this season. The great galleons of the Niger and the Nile have missed their chance to plunder the golden trophy, but don’t think for a moment they’ll be sharing a bowl of grog and singing sea shanties. Nay, the Super Eagles of Nigeria and the mummified mariners of Egypt are set to clash in a Bronze Duel that promises more flying splinters than a broadside at point-blank range. There be no love lost when pride is the only cargo left in the hold, and these two fleets are ready to scuttle each other just to claim the title of 'Third Best' in these treacherous waters.

Our lookouts atop the crow’s nest report that the atmosphere in the locker-room holds is as tense as a hanging judge’s noose. The Super Eagles, led by their taloned privateers, are still smarting from missing the Grand Final. They’ve been sharpening their cutlasses and polishing their cannons with a ferocity that suggests they’d rather sink to Davy Jones’ locker than return to Lagos with nothing but barnacles on their hulls. As my old mate, Bosun 'Big-Kicks' Balogun, spat into the brine this morning: 'The gold may be gone, but if we let those desert-dwellers take the bronze, I’ll personally feed the navigator to the Krakens. We sail for spite now, and spite is a powerful wind!'

Across the choppy waters, the Pharaohs of Egypt are chanting ancient curses and readying their sand-stained sails. They may look like they’ve spent too much time in the tomb, but these desert dogs have the endurance of a humpback whale and the stubbornness of a grounded brigantine. They feel they were cheated of their rightful place at the high table of the AFCON lords and see this bronze scrap as a way to prove that the Nile still runs deep with danger. Lord Sterling of the Ivory Coast, a man who knows a thing or two about maritime misery, was overheard in the VIP captain’s quarters saying, 'The Egyptians fight like they’ve forgotten how to bleed. It’s an unnatural sight, watching a team defend a goal as if it were the last cask of fresh water in the Sahara.'

The consequences of this naval engagement reach far beyond the pitch-deck, affecting the very trade routes of the high seas. If the Eagles falter, the price of green silk and palm oil will plummet as the nation enters a period of mourning usually reserved for the loss of a spice-fleet. Conversely, should the Pharaohs be sent to the bottom, the navigation stars over the Red Sea might just dim in embarrassment. Already, the merchant guilds are nervous; betting slips are being traded for barrels of salted pork, and the betting-sharks are circling the stadium like they smell blood in the water. This ain't just a game of kick-ball, ye lubbers; it’s a geopolitical storm that could tip the balance of power from the Gulf of Guinea to the Suez Canal.

So, batten down the hatches and prepare for a spectacle of pure, unadulterated salt. There will be no parley, no quarter given, and certainly no friendly handshakes until the final whistle blows and the salt-spray settles. Whether it’s the Eagles’ talons or the Pharaohs’ ancient hexes that prevail, one thing is certain: the AFCON Bronze Duel will be written in the logbooks as a day of fire and fury. May the VAR-beast have mercy on their souls, for Captain Iron Ink surely won't if they play like a bunch of lily-livered cabin boys!