Ruth MacLean reportedly travelled all the way from the United States to Nigeria to understand why President Donald Trump authorised airstrikes against Islamist militants in Sokoto. Her reporting, however, led her not to the theatres of violence in Northern Nigeria, but to a “tiny” shop in Onitsha—nearly 1,200 kilometres away—where she interviewed a man who earns his living selling screwdrivers.
Eureka.
From this encounter, a remarkable conclusion was drawn: that this modest trader—armed with what the article itself suggests were flawed opinions and questionable data—somehow became the decisive influence behind a major U.S. foreign-policy and military decision involving American servicemen, sophisticated hardware, and millions of dollars in resources. The report was published by The New York Times on January 18, 2026.
On a good day, if a report of this nature landed on the desk of an editor, the reporter would be asked to return to the field and do a more thorough job—or risk having the story spiked. That is how fundamentally weak this report is. And yet it appeared in one of the world’s most influential newspapers.
Why?
The answer may lie less in journalism than in advocacy, a.k.a. lobbying—a fancy word for influencing decisions and policies by any means necessary.
Ruth MacLean’s story aligns neatly with the interests of powerful advocacy networks—networks reportedly paid millions of dollars to persuade U.S. policymakers to reconsider Nigeria’s status on President Trump’s watchlist. If those are indeed the same lobbyists said to have earned up to $9 million for such efforts, then this report ticks every expected box.
The reporter signals her intent early. She writes that the “screwdriver salesman” is “an unlikely source of research that U.S. Republican lawmakers have used to promote the misleading idea that Christians are being singled out for slaughter in Africa’s most populous nation,” citing Senators and Congressmen who relied on his work. The thrust of the article is therefore neither descriptive nor truth-seeking; it is explicitly combative—aimed at discrediting a line of argument advanced by Republican lawmakers and advocacy groups calling for stronger U.S. intervention.
This is not a matter of careless reporting. It is a deliberate framing choice. It is selective perception. It is a jaundiced tale.
The article repeatedly questions the credibility of its central character, criticising him for not visiting conflict zones and for relying on secondary data. Yet paradoxically, it elevates his views into the central explanatory framework for U.S. military action. No official U.S. source is cited. No policy document is referenced. No named decision-maker confirms that his advocacy influenced President Trump. Speculation is presented as inference; inference as conclusion.
If U.S. foreign policy can indeed be shaped so casually, then the report unintentionally indicts the Pentagon, the White House, and the entire American national-security apparatus.
At its core, this is a poorly conceived and unevenly executed piece that reduces Nigeria’s complex insecurity crisis—rooted in governance failures, jihadist insurgency, criminal banditry, and state fragility—into a simplistic ethnic narrative, with Igbos once again cast as convenient scapegoats.
Journalism demands more. A reporter’s duty is not only to interrogate policies and sources, but also to offer sound perspectives and independent evidence. MacLean scrutinises her subject closely, yet fails to provide credible alternative data, eyewitness testimony, or authoritative sources of her own to support the article’s central claim—that the military strike was ill advised.
There is also a striking irony. The reporter appears not to have visited the actual theatres of violence in Northern Nigeria—precisely the omission for which she criticises her subject. If she did, the report offers no indication of it. Those who seek equity must do so with clean hands
Equally absent are the voices of numerous Nigerians from the Middle Belt and Northern regions who have publicly and repeatedly called for international intervention to halt mass killings. Many of their testimonies are readily available, some recorded on public platforms. Why were they not independently verified? Why did their perspectives not matter to MacLean in explaining U.S. decision-making?
The article leaves readers with the implausible impression that only the views of a “poor” Igbo trader and part-time NGO operator in distant Onitsha mattered in shaping the decision of the world’s most powerful leader. How convenient!
Finally, and perhaps most troublingly, the report reveals the man’s identity and locations with unnecessary specificity. In an environment where accusations of collaboration with foreign military actions can carry lethal consequences, this is reckless. Responsible journalism—especially on sensitive national-security matters—requires vigilance in protecting sources who may be placed in harm’s way.
That duty was not met.
