When the World’s Policeman Needs Policing Too — A Global Moment for Reflection, Not Superpower Posturing
By Rikwense Muri
The shooting near the White House that left two National Guard soldiers critically wounded has once again pushed America’s internal security crisis into the global spotlight. It was a jarring moment: the seat of one of the world’s most powerful governments placed on lockdown, the U.S. president whisked away to safety, and Washington reminded — not by foreign adversaries, but by its own domestic instability — that even great nations bleed.
For many who watched events unfold in the American capital, the shock was not only about the incident itself, but about what it says in a wider global context. This was not happening in a conflict-ridden region or in some fragile state. It was unfolding mere steps from the White House, an icon of Western stability, power, and democratic order. The incident echoed a series of violent episodes that have become disturbingly frequent in the United States, from mass shootings to politically motivated attacks, including last year’s attempt on Donald Trump’s life by Thomas Crooks.
Yet while these events evoke global reactions, they should also provoke global introspection — and especially introspection in the United States, whose foreign policy has long been predicated on the assumption that its internal strength qualifies it to police the rest of the world. It is a comfortable narrative for a superpower. But it is no longer a realistic one.
The United States records more than 40,000 gun-related deaths annually — a figure unimaginable in many countries it regularly admonishes. In contrast, Nigeria, despite its very real security struggles, recorded far fewer terror-related deaths in the last Global Terrorism Index. Yes, Nigeria’s figures remain troubling. Yes, banditry, rural violence, and insurgency have ravaged communities, particularly in the North. But Nigeria has not had an armed breach of Aso Rock. Nigeria has not had its soldiers gunned down near the presidential complex. Nigeria has not seen the level of routine, widespread, civilian-targeted gun carnage that plays out in the United States every year.
None of this is to trivialize the pain experienced by Nigerians in Zamfara, Kaduna, Borno, Plateau, or elsewhere — communities that continue to endure violence that is both unacceptable and unsustainable. What it does underscore, however, is the folly of imagining that some nations suffer insecurity because they are inherently less capable, less organized, or less stable. Insecurity is not a uniquely Nigerian affliction, or an African affliction, or a developing-world affliction. It is a global affliction, fed by global arms flows, cross-border criminal networks, economic desperation, ideological extremism, and failures of political trust.
In this interconnected world, the illusion that any one country — even the United States — stands above the vulnerabilities of others no longer holds. The White House shooting shatters that illusion more clearly than any academic argument or policy paper ever could.
And so, when we hear voices — both Nigerian and foreign — casually calling for U.S. military intervention in Nigeria’s internal affairs, we should pause. What exactly is being proposed? That a nation wrestling with daily mass shootings should export solutions it has not yet found at home? That a country where schoolchildren practise active-shooter drills is uniquely qualified to stabilise the streets of Katsina or Sokoto? That a state struggling with some of the deepest political divisions in its modern history should assume the burden of resolving conflicts an ocean away?
These questions are not rhetorical. They speak to a deeper contradiction in the contemporary global security narrative. The United States remains a powerful country, with immense resources and a historic role in global governance. But power is not the same as perfection. And leadership is not the same as infallibility.
The world no longer needs a global policeman. It needs genuine partners. It needs nations that recognize their own vulnerabilities, even as they seek to help others address theirs. It needs humility to replace hegemony, coordination to replace coercion, and collaboration to replace unilateral action.
Nigeria’s security institutions are far from perfect, but they are evolving. The country is investing in reforms, deploying new tactics, strengthening intelligence, and attempting — however imperfectly — to address longstanding structural rot. President Tinubu’s administration, like those before it, faces both criticism and expectations. But nation-building is not a relay that can be outsourced to foreign militaries. It is a long, messy, often painful internal process.
The shooting in Washington is a reminder that insecurity is not a measure of national weakness. It is a human reality confronting societies at different scales and in different forms. America’s challenge manifests in lone actors with weapons. Nigeria’s challenge manifests in networks of organized bandits and insurgents. Europe’s challenge manifests in extremist cells and refugees fleeing conflict zones. The Middle East’s challenge manifests in geopolitical rivalries that destabilize entire regions.
The world’s crisis is not that insecurity exists. The crisis is that we still attempt to confront it through outdated models of dominance rather than shared responsibility.
As the White House secures its perimeter and Nigeria continues strengthening its own, the message should be clear: no nation is safe alone, and no nation is qualified to claim moral superiority over another on security matters. We all stand on fragile ground — some tremors loud, others faint, but all connected beneath the surface.
If the White House can be jolted by gunfire, then every nation should embrace humility. If Nigeria can weather decades of internal security challenges without collapsing, then every nation should recognize the resilience that comes from local solutions. And if both countries can acknowledge their respective vulnerabilities, perhaps the world can finally build a security architecture rooted not in hierarchy, but in shared humanity.
That is the conversation the world needs now — not another call for America to save a world it is still struggling to save itself from.
