By Mohammed Bello Doka
When news broke in October 2020 that American special forces had flown into Nigeria, killed several captors, and rescued a kidnapped U.S. citizen without a single casualty, social media erupted with outrage. Many Nigerians believed Washington had violated the country’s sovereignty — flying in and out as though the Nigerian Air Force were a mere spectator. But the reality, like most matters of high-stakes diplomacy, is far more complex.
Yes, the U.S. military — specifically the Navy SEAL Team Six — did conduct a covert night raid on Nigerian soil, rescuing an American named Philip Walton, who had been kidnapped in Niger and moved across the border into northern Nigeria. The mission was real, precise, and successful. But despite the online uproar, it wasn’t an outright act of invasion.
According to the Pentagon, the operation was conducted “in coordination with Nigerian authorities.” That phrase, though deliberately vague, is diplomatic code. It means that Nigeria’s top leadership — likely the National Security Adviser and the Chief of Defence Staff — were informed and quietly gave consent, even if the operation’s details were never shared with the wider military structure.
In plain terms: Nigeria’s government knew, but Nigeria’s soldiers didn’t. The Americans notified Abuja, not Abuja’s barracks. That way, both sides saved face — Washington got its man, and Nigeria avoided the embarrassment of being seen as unable to protect its own borders or rescue a foreign hostage within them.
It was a win-win built on silence. The U.S. rescued its citizen, Nigeria kept its pride intact, and the world moved on — leaving only a lingering question about sovereignty and trust. After all, if a foreign power can slip in and out that easily, it’s hard not to wonder who really controls Nigeria’s skies.
Editorial Note:
This 2020 episode remains one of the clearest symbols of Nigeria’s growing military and diplomatic fragility. It revealed a nation whose airspace can be quietly borrowed, whose armed forces can be politely bypassed, and whose sovereignty now exists more on paper than in practice.
The U.S. raid showed what many observers have whispered for years — that Nigeria’s defense establishment is riddled with leaks, mistrust, and inefficiency, forcing allies to act alone when urgency demands. In truth, Washington’s decision to move without Nigerian boots was not an insult, but an indictment.
Five years later, the same questions echo louder: If foreign powers can conduct precision missions on Nigerian soil with only a courtesy call to Abuja, what does that say about our national security architecture? And if America can trust its men to bring one citizen home safely, why can’t Nigeria do the same for hundreds abducted every month within its own borders?
In the end, the operation may have rescued one man — but it also exposed a painful truth: Nigeria’s sovereignty today is less about borders and more about perception. The U.S. may have left quietly, but the echo of that mission still reminds the world who truly has power — and who only pretends to.