Last night, the BBC etched into the public record a tale of shame. A tale of petitions, of defaced murals, of a hashtag — #NoToMadueke — trending from within. From our own. From those who claim the cannon as theirs.
And so, Arsenal — grand old Arsenal — finds itself once more at war with itself. A transfer not yet announced. A player not yet arrived. And already, the judgement has been passed.
What follows is not analysis. It is a lament. A plea. A line in the sand.
This Is Not Your Save File. This Is Arsenal.
There is a poison in the bloodstream.
A virus on the tongue.
A sickness born not of wounds, but of wilful entitlement — and it spreads with each tweet, each jeer, each petition signed not in ink, but in ignorance.
Arsenal — the name that once stirred hearts — now finds its echoes sullied by those who claim to love it. Not enemies. Not rivals. Us.
Fans. Supposedly. Those that I refuse to call supporters.
What happened to us?
What happened to patience, to grace, to the humility of knowing this club is bigger than us all?
What happened to recognising courage — in a young man who, at just 23, stands at the edge of something monumental and chooses to step forward… into our story?
Noni Madueke.
A name now cursed by the lips of the very people he might call his own.
A player not yet announced, not yet adorned in red and white — and already rejected, ridiculed, revolted against.
Why?
Because he is not Rodrygo?
Because he is not a YouTube compilation with Champions League background music?
Because he wore Chelsea blue?
What cold, joyless place have we arrived at, where a player cannot even enter before he is booed?
Where murals are defaced in protest, and petitions spread like wildfire not against corruption or injustice — but against a young man’s dream?
It is grotesque.
This is not fantasy football.
This is not FIFA.
This is not Football Manager.
This is Arsenal Football Club — proud, historic, imperfect — and real.
Yes, I Get The Hypocrisy
Yes, I know.
Only yesterday, I questioned it.
I put pen to page, voice to doubt—wondering aloud what the arrival of Noni Madueke might mean for the tender, rising flame that is Ethan Nwaneri.
And yet, football moves as life does: not in neat chapters, but in jolting plot twists.
Where some sagas crawl, others gallop.
Where one deal drowns in red tape, another arrives like lightning—brilliant, unannounced, and absolute.
And so here we are.
Madueke, once a rumour, now a reality.
A move that gathered such sudden momentum it blurred the line between speculation and certainty before we could catch our breath.
By nightfall, he may wear our colours.
And when he does, he becomes not just a signing.
He becomes one of us.
One of our own.
You cried for squad depth.
You begged for ambition.
You pined for reinforcements when Bukayo Saka ran himself to the bone week after week.
And now, presented with a willing soul, an England international, a player with pedigree, promise, and presence —
You scoff.
You spit.
You slander.
What right have you?
Madueke may not be your dream. He may not even be your Plan B.
But he is a footballer. A professional. A young man bold enough to say yes to the cannon — to walk into our house and declare: I’m ready.
And for that alone, he deserves respect. He deserves a chance.
Have we learned nothing?
We have seen Diarra’s, the Benayoun’s, the Willian’s, the Luiz’s — yes. But this is not that.
This is not another castoff — this is a player Chelsea fans, some of them, don’t want to lose.
He is not being discarded. He is being chosen. And he, in turn, chooses us.
That matters.
This club has endured darker days than this.
I remember the Super League betrayal — the fury, the coldness in the pit of the stomach.
We marched. We protested. We were united.
But this? This is theatre.
This is outrage for show.
This is petulance dressed up as principle.
And it is beneath us.
When Madueke arrives — he will walk into a storm not of his making.
But let it be known: some of us will stand behind him.
Some of us still recognise the bravery it takes to don that shirt.
Some of us still believe in support — not just when it’s easy, but when it’s uncertain.
He will have to earn it. The songs. The cheers. The love.
But he deserves to try.
So to the self-anointed tacticians with their petitions and their Photoshop vandalism:
Who are you?
Who gave you the keys to the gates of this great club?
Who told you that your opinion was gospel, your bitterness truth?
You don’t speak for me.
You don’t speak for Arsenal.
Because Arsenal is class. Arsenal is grace. Arsenal is more than the noise.
And Arsenal — in every moment, every transfer, every footstep taken by a player with a dream — deserves better than this.
Never has this sign off been more apt.
Victoria Concordia Crescit