I write this with deep concern—not anger, but concern—over what increasingly appears to be a troubling pattern in the posture of the United States under President Donald Trump toward Nigeria, particularly its Muslim communities and northern leadership.
Since Trump’s return to office, a narrative has steadily gathered momentum in Washington: that Nigeria is a theatre of “Christian genocide,” orchestrated or tolerated by Muslim political actors. It is a grave allegation. It is also one that many credible Nigerian authorities, religious leaders, security experts, and independent analysts have consistently challenged as simplistic, selective, and dangerously misleading.
Nigeria’s security crisis is real. Terrorism, banditry, communal clashes, and criminal violence have devastated communities—Muslim and Christian alike—in Borno, Zamfara, Niger, Benue, Plateau, Kaduna and beyond. But to reduce this complex web of criminality, governance failure, climate pressure, and arms proliferation into a one-dimensional religious war is not analysis; it is advocacy.
The genesis of this framing can be traced to lobbying efforts and reports amplified in foreign policy circles—some originating from discredited advocacy groups, whose data and claims have been publicly questioned by investigative journalists. Yet, these narratives have found fertile ground among certain US lawmakers and religious pressure blocs eager to fit Nigeria into a broader global persecution template.
President Trump’s earlier designation of Nigeria as a “Country of Particular Concern” (CPC) over alleged religious persecution was controversial. The redesignation months later reinforced the perception that Washington had settled on a narrative, regardless of Nigeria’s internal complexities.
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Driven by this ill-informed framing, Trump ordered a Christmas Day airstrike on Sokoto—historically the seat of Nigeria’s Islamic Caliphate—as a symbolic gesture aimed at appeasing his Christian constituency. The strike occurred despite Sokoto being neither an epicentre of terrorism nor banditry. The Muslims did not protest the deliberate provocation, even after discovering that local collaborators were feeding Americans the so-called ‘Christian genocide’ narrative as a strategic ploy to influence Nigeria’s 2027 presidential elections.
Now comes the introduction of the “Nigeria Religious Freedom and Accountability Act of 2026” by US lawmakers Chris Smith, Riley Moore, Brian Mast, Mario Diaz-Balart, and Bill Huizenga. The bill seeks sanctions—including visa bans and asset freezes—against former Kano State Governor Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso and certain Fulani-affiliated groups such as the Miyetti Allah Cattle Breeders Association of Nigeria (MACBAN) and Miyetti Allah Kautal Hore.
More disturbingly, the legislation appears designed to pave the way for categorising Muslim political leaders as well as “Fulani-ethnic nomad militias” as foreign terrorist organisations.
It is so worrisome to scandalise a prominent political figure like Kwankwaso—a Muslim who is not known as a religious extremist—on the eve of his alignment ahead of Nigeria’s upcoming presidential election is deeply scandalous. Equally dangerous is the attempt to criminalise an entire ethnic identity under the sweeping label of “Fulani militia,” setting a perilous precedent.
Criminal elements exist across all ethnic and religious lines in Nigeria. But the Fulani, like the Igbo, Yoruba, Tiv, Kanuri, Ijaw or any other group, are a diverse population numbering in the millions. Collective blame is not justice; it is profiling.
Nigeria has welcomed increased U.S. military engagement, with AFRICOM officials meeting Nigerian security leaders and American troops now permitted to operate in the country. The government has also invested millions of dollars in diplomatic outreach and strategic lobbying. Yet the shift from partnership to punitive labelling raises an uncomfortable question: what exactly is Washington seeking?
And more importantly, what does Trump’s new posture mean for Nigerians, Muslims and non-Muslims alike? Should it push us toward suspicion of one another or toward questioning the motives behind externally driven narratives, including those shaped by controversial reports from certain advocacy groups, especially the Onitsha-based Intersociety operated by a screwdriver salesman and other IPOB platforms?
If the concern is truly religious freedom, then policy must be anchored in verifiable evidence, not selective outrage. Terrorism’s epicentres—Borno under Boko Haram, Zamfara under banditry networks, Niger under insurgent infiltration—do not fit neatly into a Christian-versus-Muslim binary. Victims in these theatres include imams, pastors, farmers, traders, and children of every faith.
As I reflected in my previous articles, the narrative that Nigeria’s Muslims are collectively complicit in anti-Christian persecution is not only inaccurate; it is inflammatory. It risks deepening mistrust within Nigeria’s fragile social fabric. It emboldens extremists who thrive on polarisation. And it externalises what should remain a sovereign, evidence-driven security discourse.
But sanctions based on politicised framing or fictitious advocacy-driven reports by secessionist and anti-Muslim groups undermine the credibility of international accountability mechanisms.
If President Trump’s America truly seeks stability in West Africa, it must engage Nigeria in partnership, not profiling; in evidence, not emotion; in diplomacy, not designation.
Nigeria’s Muslims and Fulani ethnic groups do not need appeasement. They need fairness. Our country needs fact-based engagement, not fear.
Yushau A. Shuaib is the author of “An Encounter with the Spymaster” and “Award-Winning Crisis Communication Strategies.” yashuaib@yashuaib.com
