When Akon stood before cameras in 2018, confidently announcing plans to build a “futuristic smart city” in Senegal, he was celebrated as more than just a pop star.

He was seen as a savior—a Black man of African descent returning to the continent not just with money, but with a vision.

A vision of a self-sustaining, tech-forward metropolis.

A real-life Wakanda.

But today, the only thing that remains of that vision is dust, cattle, broken promises—and a giant question mark.

What happened to Akon City? And was it ever real to begin with?

Let’s go back.

The initial plan was ambitious—some say delusional.

Akon promised that by 2026, the first phase of his billion-dollar project would be complete.

There would be skyscrapers, a tech hub, a hospital, luxury apartments, a stadium, even an airport.

Everything powered by solar energy and running on his own cryptocurrency, Acoin.

Investors signed on.

The press went wild.

Government officials shook his hand.

The public? They were inspired.

For once, it felt like someone with real money and real fame wasn’t just talking about helping Africa—he was doing it.

But then reality started to creep in.

The timeline kept shifting.

First it was 2023, then 2026.

The budget? Vague.

The blueprints? Mostly digital renderings.

And when people—journalists, fans, skeptics—began showing up at the site of Akon City, they didn’t find futuristic towers or neon-lit streets.

They found grass.

Dirt roads.

Cattle.

And a dusty sign that read: “Welcome to Akon City.”

That’s right.

Years after the groundbreaking ceremony (which itself had more cameras than construction equipment), only one building stands—and even that one looks like it belongs in a CGI portfolio, not a functioning city.

So what happened?

According to Akon, everything was on track.

Delays, he said, were due to the pandemic, bureaucratic red tape, and investor hesitation.

He even went on podcasts recently, insisting, “We’re still building it.”

But what he doesn’t mention is this: the Senegalese government has already reclaimed most of the land.

According to multiple reports, the government handed the bulk of the promised land to a different investor for a luxury resort project backed by the state.

Akon? He’s now left with only 8 hectares of land.

Out of hundreds.

Even more shocking, locals say they were never consulted.

Many residents told the BBC and other outlets that they were promised jobs and infrastructure—but instead, they’ve seen nothing change.

“We were promised a better future,” said one villager.

“Now we just want the truth.”

The truth, it turns out, is messy.

Let’s talk about Acoin, the cryptocurrency Akon claimed would empower African economies and revolutionize the way people do business.

He compared it to Bitcoin but “for Africa,” and said it would be the foundation of his city.

But when asked how it would work, he famously responded:

“I come with the concepts and let the geeks figure it out.”

Red flag, anyone?

The crypto itself never took off.

Adoption was virtually nonexistent.

Most of the people behind the coin weren’t even African—they were Western finance and tech bros.

And when rumors of a potential pump-and-dump scheme started circulating, the optimism began to rot.

Nothing was proven.

But the smoke was there.

And people started looking for the fire.

Then came the allegations that the whole thing was just a PR play.

That Akon, whose musical relevance had faded since the early 2000s, was using Akon City to rebrand himself as a global entrepreneur and philanthropist.

And for a while, it worked.

He sat on international panels.

Spoke at summits.

Got praise in global media.

All while the people of Sagal, Senegal—the ones who actually lived near the proposed site—were left waiting for schools that never came, jobs that were never created, and a hospital that still doesn’t exist.

And remember the hospital? Akon once claimed it alone would cost nearly a billion dollars and would be the largest in Africa.

Today, there’s not even a clinic.

When pressed about the lack of progress, Akon doubled down.

In interviews, he’s claimed that “the powers that be” are trying to destroy his project.

He says there’s a coordinated smear campaign against him, that “they” can’t stand to see a Black man succeed on his own terms.

“You can’t fight the internet,” he said.

“We had over 23 million false ads… It’s the agendas.

The powers that be.”

But while Akon talks about being sabotaged, the Senegalese government is quietly moving on.

In a leaked internal report, officials admitted the project is “stalled beyond recovery.

” They confirmed no funding, no meaningful construction, and no evidence of continued development.

At this point, the project isn’t just delayed.

It’s dead.

So what was all this?

Was it just a good idea that fell apart? Or was it something darker?

Was Akon really trying to uplift Africa? Or was he selling a dream—one that gave him publicity, investor money, and a seat at global power tables… without ever delivering anything tangible?

This wouldn’t be the first time Africa was used as a stage for celebrity philanthro-capitalism.

We’ve seen it before—foreign investors, Western charities, and now even Black American celebrities stepping in with big promises, but no accountability.

And when the smoke clears, it’s always the same:

The money is gone.

The media moves on.

And the people are left picking up the pieces.

But here’s the part that stings the most.

Akon—a son of the continent—wasn’t some outsider parachuting in.

He was supposed to be different.

He used his heritage, his fame, his influence to build trust.

To tell people that he wasn’t just another celebrity out for himself.

That he understood.

But now, even his defenders are going quiet.

The project is in shambles.

There’s no timeline.

No transparency.

No proof of progress.

And still, no investigation.

No major media outlet is asking where the money went.

No investor is demanding accountability.

The people who gave him the benefit of the doubt—fans, locals, governments—are left wondering if they were scammed… or just used.

And as for Akon? He’s still on interviews, still talking about the dream.

Still deflecting.

“I think my biggest mistake was promoting it too early,” he said.

“People thought the city already existed.”

Maybe they thought that because he spent years telling them it did.

Akon City was more than just a broken promise.

It was a cautionary tale—about hype, hero worship, and how easy it is for fame to masquerade as leadership.

In the end, it wasn’t Wakanda.

It was a mirage.

One that disappeared the closer you got.

And if there’s one lesson to take away, it’s this:

Don’t let 3D renderings and celebrity charm blind you to the truth.

Because when the cameras leave and the music fades, only the land remembers the lies.