For many Nigerians, it came as a surprise—almost a cultural jolt—that a Trinidad-born, United States-based rapper and global pop icon, Nicki Minaj, would emerge as one of the most prominent Black voices amplifying claims of a Christian genocide in Nigeria and openly aligning with the rhetoric of President Donald Trump on the issue.
Beyond reposts and emphatic commentary on her massive social-media platforms, Minaj reportedly took the argument to an even higher pedestal, engaging the issue within the framework of international advocacy, including presentations at the United Nations.
As the narrative unfolded, it emerged that Minaj’s interest was not merely ideological or performative. She is said to have close pastoral connections with roots in Nigeria, a detail that helped explain her emotional investment in the plight of Christians in the country. Yet, strikingly, while Nigerian-American organisations and mainstream Nigerian Christian bodies have been largely muted or fragmented in response to Nigeria’s designation as a Country of Particular Concern (CPC) for religious persecution, the loudest and most organised voices have come from largely white—Christian conservatives and church-driven advocacy groups in the United States.
Indeed, much of the pressure for stricter U.S. action against Nigeria has been driven by American Christians deeply alarmed by repeated reports of Islamist violence sweeping across parts of the country. These advocates view the Nigerian situation not through the lens of ethnic competition, banditry, or state fragility, but as a clear-cut religious war against Christianity. Last Thursday, that narrative gained renewed momentum when U.S. Congressman Riley Moore circulated posts allegedly by ISWAP, showing images of a Christian community in Adamawa State engulfed in flames.
The posts claimed that Christians were issued an ultimatum: convert to Islam or pay the jizyah tax to avoid violence. Moore left little room for nuance in his response. “If there were any remaining doubts that Christians in Nigeria are being targeted for their faith in Jesus Christ, this should end that debate,” he wrote.
“This isn’t about land usage, ‘climate change,’ or any other argument the Left wants to make. This is persecution of our brothers and sisters for their faith in Christ, plain and simple.”
Moore’s intervention typifies a broader movement within American politics where the Christian Right has successfully leveraged moral outrage into concrete policy pressure. Many white American lawmakers and evangelical leaders have marshalled their influence to shape U.S. foreign policy, using Trump as both symbol and instrument. Ironically, this mobilisation occurred despite Trump’s own colourful personal history. What mattered to the movement was not sanctimony, but results.
Through sustained organisation, messaging discipline and political bargaining, the American church succeeded in pushing back against what it views as a secular leftist ideology that denies God, blurs the identity of men and women, and elevates sexual politics above faith. Within a year, policies associated with President Joe Biden—particularly those advancing LGBTQ+ rights, transgender participation in women’s sports and broader gender redefinitions—were either reversed or aggressively challenged under conservative pressure.
The Christian Right has since extended its reach beyond domestic culture wars. No longer content with a traditional fixation on Israel alone, it has broadened its foreign-policy agenda to include the protection of persecuted Christians worldwide. It is therefore unsurprising that whenever Trump references Nigeria—sometimes even controversially—he frames his actions as protective of Christians.
The military strike against Islamists embedded in Sokoto was rhetorically justified as part of a global defence of Christian lives.
Ironically, such framing has found cautious acceptance among both Christians and Muslims in Nigeria, largely because Islamist violence has not spared Muslim communities either. This shared suffering has diluted what could otherwise have escalated into a full-blown religious war, underscoring the complexity of Nigeria’s crisis—one that defies simplistic dichotomies.
What remains startling, however, is the contrast between the organisational muscle of the American church and the lethargy of its Nigerian counterpart. At a moment when global attention was being drawn to Nigeria’s religious crisis, the country’s media space was saturated with salacious reports about the sexcapades of a flamboyant cleric, Pastor Chris Okafor, following his much-publicised latest wedding to a new wife. Even more troubling was the presence of respected church leaders, including international evangelist Matthew Ashimolowo, at the ceremony.
While the jury remains out on why prominent pastors would celebrate a figure mired in allegations of moral excess, the episode raises a deeper question: what moral authority do such leaders retain to confront the Nigerian state on allegations of Christian persecution?
One can easily imagine the awkwardness of figures like Ashimolowo or Okafor seeking an audience with President Tinubu to demand action on Christian killings, only for the conversation to be hijacked by unresolved scandals involving estranged spouses and public accusations.
More disturbing is the persistence of a culture in which these figures are exalted as “Papa” by devoted congregations, despite biblical injunctions to the contrary. When Christ explicitly warned, “Call no man father,” he could scarcely have imagined the theatrical deviation that now passes for spiritual leadership in parts of Nigeria. Titles are brandished, reverence demanded, yet moral credibility steadily erodes.
This inglorious motif—where celebrity replaces Christian character and spectacle supplants substance—has rendered the organised church largely ineffective in influencing governance, policy advocacy and national moral leadership. Many Nigerians, particularly older generations, recall with nostalgia the era of Benson Idahosa, a cleric who spoke truth to power without scandal, without theatrics, and without compromise.
Until the Nigerian church regains that moral spine, it will remain a spectator while others—foreign churches, foreign lawmakers, and foreign celebrities—define its narrative on the global stage.
The post Chris Okafor and the untold story of American bombs over Sokoto, by Emmanuel Aziken appeared first on Vanguard News.
