When the United States carried out airstrikes in northern Nigeria in late December, it said the operation—conducted at Abuja’s request—targeted Islamic State fighters to prevent the killing of Christians. However, experts have challenged Washington’s narrative that Christians are being systematically massacred in Nigeria, arguing that the claim, widely promoted by the American right, oversimplifies the country’s complex security and communal conflicts.
Analyst Prince Charles Dickson, speaking to RFI, described the US intervention as a “warning sign” for Nigerians, cautioning that it sets a troubling precedent for external involvement in Africa’s internal governance and security affairs.
Dickson is a Nigerian policy analyst and serves as the team lead at the community-focused peacebuilding organization, Tattaaunawa Roundtable Initiative (TRICentre).
RFI: Did Abuja really ask for the strikes?
Prince Charles Dickson: Officially, yes. Both US Africa Command and Nigerian authorities have stated that the strikes were conducted “in coordination with, and at the request of” the Nigerian government, specifically targeting ISIS-linked cells in Sokoto.
However, within Nigeria, it doesn’t feel like a fully sovereign, carefully considered decision. There was no transparent public discussion, no prior briefing for citizens or parliament, and the announcement only came after the missiles had already struck.
So, on paper, Abuja claims, “we requested this,” but politically, it seems more like the government is trying to reclaim the narrative after Washington acted and presented it as a Christmas strike aimed at protecting Nigerian Christians.
Where did the strikes actually land, and who lives there?
The strikes targeted rural areas of Sokoto, around Tangaza LGA and the Bauni forest—communities that are overwhelmingly Muslim and have long existed in a murky zone between “bandits,” jihadist factions, self-defense groups, and ordinary villagers.
This creates a sharp contrast with the political messaging in the US, which framed the operation as protecting Christians and preventing “genocide.” In reality, the missiles hit areas that are not Christian enclaves and are far from the Plateau or Benue regions usually cited in such narratives.
On the ground, many residents don’t recognize the tidy labels used in Washington. They experience violence, extortion, and raids, but don’t necessarily see a clearly defined “ISIS” presence. That’s not to say jihadist cells don’t exist; rather, the claim that “we struck ISIS, therefore we protected civilians” becomes far more disputed when heard from the civilians themselves.
Do you fear further attacks and civilians being hit?
I’m concerned. Nigerians are already traumatized by our own military’s record of “mistaken” strikes on villages and religious gatherings—for instance, Tudun Biri in Kaduna in 2023, where scores of worshippers were killed by a Nigerian drone.
Introducing US cruise missiles into this context—long-range weapons guided by intelligence that is partly remote, partly political, and rarely accountable to the communities below—adds a very real risk. Even if the initial strikes only hit militants, people here know how quickly faulty intelligence, pressure to “show results,” or misreading local dynamics can turn into civilian casualties.
Is it a scary precedent for Nigeria and for Africa?
I see this as a deeply troubling precedent. For the first time since independence, a foreign power has conducted declared, unilateral combat strikes on Nigerian soil, and our government has effectively validated that as acceptable practice.
It normalizes the notion that when domestic security becomes messy or politically inconvenient, part of the problem can be outsourced to a foreign military, then framed under the language of “joint operations” and “counter-terrorism.”
For Africa more broadly, it signals that external kinetic interventions remain an option, even when the underlying causes are governance failures, land disputes, economic marginalization, or arms proliferation.
From a peacebuilding perspective, it also entrenches a religious lens. When a US president publicly frames strikes as protecting Christians, it fuels dangerous narratives: in some Christian circles, it reinforces a siege mentality; in some Muslim communities, it bolsters fears of a coordinated Western-Christian agenda. In a region already on edge, that’s combustible material.
Does Nigeria want regional bodies Ecowas and the African Union to be consulted?
Will ECOWAS and the African Union address this? They should, at least behind closed doors. The issue touches on regional security norms, the rules around foreign bases and strikes, and the already fragile legitimacy of ECOWAS after multiple coups and withdrawals.
My sense is that any discussion will be cautious and discreet. Nigeria remains a central player in ECOWAS and AU peace and security structures, and many leaders will be reluctant to publicly criticize Abuja while also relying on Western military partnerships.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the topic surfaces on the margins of the AU summit in Addis Ababa (11–15 February), framed within broader discussions about external military actors in the Sahel, rather than as a standalone agenda item on “US strikes in Nigeria.”
How do you see the fight against jihadism unfolding?
From where I sit in Jos, this feels less like a turning point in the “war on terror” and more like a warning about how easily African lives can be used as props in someone else’s domestic politics. Nigerians—both Muslim and Christian—are exhausted by violence.
They want safety, justice, functioning institutions, and dignity. They want a government strong enough to protect them, but also humble enough to be accountable to them, not to foreign applause.
If there is any hope in this moment, it lies in the possibility of a more honest conversation at home: about how we define threats, whose suffering matters, and who gets to decide when bombs fall on Nigerian soil.